


singed

by shannyan



Series: the line between heating and burning [2]
Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mouth trauma, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, its so fitting, smh i’m so cliche with the icarus metaphor but i can’t help it, will update tags and warning as story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2020-12-21 04:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21068870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannyan/pseuds/shannyan
Summary: canon divergent Golden Age arc— Guts never leaves Griffith. Would the eclipse still happen? Are they enough for each other? A fire can only either grow or die.





	1. ch 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a part two to “the line between heating and burning”— that’s a separate fic because i feel like it’s a good standalone. but here will start exactly where that fic left off and go all the way to the “eclipse”. this can’t be read separate from my last fic!!

They amputated it. 

As cleanly as they could, but it was still grotesque. Too many veins, capillaries pierced, his arm dried out like a withered plant. But it’s alright, Griffith will have the resources for a new one, shiny and silver. His proximity to Charlotte will soon bring him many things; Guts only needs to wait a little for the replacement. He had laid out the timeline for Guts (who normally never asked such things) (but now he feels involved, justified to that kind of information)

“Will you kill her after you get what you want?”

“That wouldn’t be kind.”

“Neither is this.”

Griffith smiles, and the moonlight races to illuminate it. “Eventually. If that’s what you want.”

It’s deep into the night, where everyone is asleep and unaware, except of course for the two of them, and Charlotte. They’ll be requesting more provisions from the princess, in order to reinforce her bond to the band of the hawk. The plan is to address her rather than the king, make requests that he would deny but she would happily, desperately fulfill. Rather than snatch her out of that tall castle, he’ll lure her out. And if she throws herself out the window rather than descend down the stairs, all the better. With her blind devotion, it’s plausible that she would slip and fall through the glass. 

This one’s a harmless request that wouldn’t make them appear unreasonable if discovered, and the repercussions, if any, would fall on Charlotte. The request would come from her lips, with witnesses as well, and so if it was deemed wrong, then _ she _would be wrong. 

There’s no doubt that she would act accordingly; they had both seen the look in her eyes when Griffith leaned in close to her ear and whispered the time and meeting place. Guts’ isn’t the only one who’s been blinded. 

But Guts wears the behelit now, placed around his neck in his sleep, where it’s remained ever since. The gesture itself is significant— Griffith’s only possession, the manifestation of his dream, an object that’s always been literally right beside his heart. The symbolism was initially lost on Guts, the significance of wearing the embodiment of Griffith’s dream— meaning that it’s one and the same with Guts, that they were equally treasured. 

Though it’s heavy, and not just metaphorically. He swears that it burns him at night, that its mouth cracks open and latches onto his skin. Defiance, to be held by the wrong owner, to have switched hands. He doesn’t tell Griffith… he doesn’t want to sound unworthy of it. 

As much as he appreciates owning it, he can feel an almost madness seeping into him— there's a constant unsettlement, a premonition of vague ruination, especially tonight; there’s something eerie about the sound of the wind, the shape of the moon. The tiny lips of the behelit hiss against him. He walks closer to Griffith than usual, close enough that his cloak would momentarily flap against his side, and he wishes it could swallow Griffith up completely.

Griffith’s grin turns cheeky. “Worried she’ll seduce me?” 

Guts scoffs and bumps shoulders with him, now much more confident of his importance. Griffith leans into him once given the opening. “Do you want to come tonight? Get some face time with our princess?”

“...I’d.. dampen the mood.” 

“I’m sure she would see your charm, given enough time.”

“She said I was scary.”

“She has bad taste.”

“....She’s in love with you. What does that say about you?”

“Rather, what does it say about _ you _?” 

Guts clicks his tongue and shoves him away. “Stop teasing me. It’ll work best if it’s just you.”

He hasn’t realized it, but there was a large difference between being a knight and a right hand man. Quite literally, he was now always on hand, always by Griffith’s side. The strategy meetings, the obligatory parties, the constant studying, it wasn’t particularly interesting to Guts— in all honesty, he tuned it out. But he liked being with Griffith. Griffith always asks his opinion now, on everything. If Guts agrees with the plans, his impression of people, what he wants for the two of them. For the first time, Guts has full control of his life. 

Some are glad he’s staying, others uncomfortable, and one (Corkus) flatly pissed. But every single one of them avoided looking at him. And when they did, he could see the slight movement of their eyes, the way they dart at his missing one. No one asked why, but they probably suspect punishment. It makes Guts almost smile. 

This clinginess, honesty, was out of character for Guts. But for the first time, he knows what he wants. And it’s… not cathartic, something stronger than that— maybe just comfortable. He feels lighter, happier; comfortable. This is, for sure, his place. 

And the behavior’s mutual. In the past, even when Griffith had asked for cruel things from Guts, there was a certain amount of restraint. His ruthlessness would slip out in his demands, in his actions, but not in his actual language, or his spoken thoughts. He had selected a voice, a tone to go along with his face, gentle and kind. That’s now ceased with Guts. 

Now, there’s no coating his assessment of others, observations as crude as their subject matter. He was machiavellian, and Guts expects, wants nothing less from him. After what he’s done to keep Guts, he can’t stop now. 

He’s happy now, he has what he wants, but doubt is a snake, curling around his legs. It could never be asked, and yet he wondered, how Griffith would react if Guts told him to choose between him and his dream. It would be incredibly cruel (but, more cruel than losing an arm and eye?) and he feared his answer, but he still thought about it. Often. Has Guts seen all of him? Does he now know him, everything about him? Are there still unspoken thoughts? 

“You know, I heard you that night. At the ball.”

Griffith’s good humor disappears, face smoothing out like a sculpture, carefully cast. “....That’s why you tried to leave?”

“Yeah. I was… jealous.” Of him having a dream, of the phantom equal, of… Charlotte, maybe. He had made the decision to ignore it, to find peace in his own route, retreat into this new found comfort, but it must be acknowledged first, at the very least. 

Did you mean it— he wants to, can’t ask that. It doesn’t matter, Griffith has made his choice and proved himself, Guts just wants to… hear him say he changed his mind. Guts discarded the notion of a dream for his sake, and so he expects Griffith to discard his notion of friendship. Or just— anything, Guts will believe anything he says, he just has to say something— 

Panic rises in him as Griffith’s silence continues— the ground is shaking, wind howling, sky grows impossibly darker. It’s only when he sees the surprise on Griffith’s face that he realizes that he’s not the only one feeling it. 

Recognition is instant upon eye contact— it’s _ Zodd _— appearing from the sky, but it feels like he’s erupted from the ground, from hell itself, for the entire forest shook as he landed, shuddered in dread. 

Huge, towering, even more fearsome than the last time. Guts can’t help it, his knees go weak, his body freezes. As fearsome as the first time Guts had seen him, if not _ worse _, for he wore a face of absolute anger, lips pulled back in a growl, wide enough to show all his teeth, sharp and huge. He could eat Guts whole if he tried. A single breath from him shook the nearby trees more than the wind could. His eyes beam red in the darkness, so bright that he swore there was a light glow of red on Griffith, when Guts’ eye darted to the side to check on him. Griffith grabs onto Guts’ arm, but doesn’t look at him. An overbearing hold that further anchors him in place, but it’s welcome, it keeps him upright. 

“This is wrong. You have strayed from the predestined path.” 

Guts and Griffith stand too close to each other, he can’t tell which of them Zodd is speaking to. He hasn’t forgotten Zodd’s words from last time (though he did try). That being by Griffith’s side would kill him. That he would be sacrificed. 

“That doesn’t belong to you.” His huge hand approaches them, and that’s when Guts finally has the sense to move— 

He pulls out his sword and tries to stand in front of Griffith, protect him, but he quickly realizes that Zodd is after _ him _. He’s so large, so fast, that Guts has to throw his whole body to the side to save himself, and just barely makes it. 

But Zodd follows him there, crushes him against the ground with that huge hand of his, the force knocking his sword out of his one handed grip. This fight is different from the last— only now does he realize that it didn’t reflect Zodd’s true strength, that he was playing with his food. Now he moves with _ intent _, and the ease in which he overpowers Guts gives him the instant realization that he is overpowered. 

His one eye connects with Griffith’s, who’s already racing towards them, caution damned. It makes Guts angry at himself for momentarily giving up, and then he too resists, biting and clawing. Zodd tightens his grip, nails piercing through his clothes, his skin, maybe even muscle— but he’s distracting him, that’s enough, so now Griffith can—

Zodd sees him though, fuck, huge eye swiveling towards his charging figure, which continues undeterred, and his sword— connects!

Into the flesh of Zodd’s arm, his bicep, intended to force him to release Guts, but it doesn’t work, he’s not sure if Zodd even feels pain from it at first, but sure enough, his fingers waver. The lack of resistance is odd, but there’s no time to wonder. 

“The eclipse in inevitable. The behelit cannot be in your hands once it comes. You’re to be a sacrifice.”

Guts takes advantage of that small opening, kicking and throwing out a fist in order to break out of the vice. “Says who?” 

“You cannot defy destiny. Only he can hatch the egg of the king.”

His breath comes out quick and fast, and it’s not just because of the strangulation. “It was given to me!”

Whether from Guts’ struggle, Zodd’s injury, or just a loss of interest, Guts is released— he rolls with the fall to minimize it, but it certainly isn’t kind to his fresh injuries. 

Zodd now appears to be.. kneeling? One knee on the ground, and his head ducked down, directly before Griffith. “You. Do not lose sight of your destiny. That is the mark of the godhand. You must have it when the eclipse comes, in order to take what is rightfully yours.” 

Griffith had been running towards Guts, but he halts at Zodd’s words, expression indiscernible. 

He pulls back onto his haunches, and looks at Griffith, only at Griffith. “If you wish for your kingdom, you will take heed.” And he takes off, as suddenly as he had come, his appearance lasting all of five minutes. 

And Griffith is still standing there, watching where he had been, though his eyes are sightless. The fact that he’s unscathed is miraculous, and yet Guts feel unsettled rather than relieved. 

“...Griffith?” 

He snaps out of his daze at once, and is by Guts’ side immediately, holds his upper half up so that he’s sitting up. 

“He hurt you. I’m—….sorry.”

“Why.. are you sorry?”

Griffith shakes his head in place of an answer, covering Guts’ cuts with his hands, like they’d disappear if out of sight. “Unforgivable.”

The waver in his voice is also worrisome, and for a moment Guts wishes he was even more injured, enough to snatch Griffith’s attention away from Zodd’s words. 

What is he thinking— does he want the behelit back, is he going to—

Indeed, Griffith’s hand leaves his side to reach at his chest, and so he jerks away haphazardly, single arm drawn in to fend him off. Griffith wears open hurt, and pulls back as well— but he reaches out again, more insistent now, and to Guts’ great relief, he’s simply examining a wound by his ribs (which are definitely broken). 

“We.. need to get you medical attention.”

The feeling is reaching him now, the pain, dizziness, and he staggers forward against Griffith, unbalanced body tipping over at his heavier side, like his remaining arm also wishes to be taken by Griffith. 

“Don’t fall asleep— wait, we’ll get back soon, just, walk with me—“ Has Guts sapped away his level headedness? Strategy and calmness was always guiding Griffith, no matter the circumstance, even in life-threatening situations, but it’s been lost since Guts has taken him; His arms shake against Guts, eyes wild, face pale. Guts drove him to this. 

With some effort, he heaves away and upright, and immediately starts walking so as to not squander the limited time he has left conscious. Griffith quickly comes and assists him, franticness disordering his step. 

It seems the initial threat of loss broke something in Griffith, opened a door neither of them knew existed. It’s a trap door, for you don’t willingly walk in, but rather fall; the drop disfigured both of them (visible only on Guts, but equally inflicted upon Griffith). 

It can’t be closed now, it’s broken off its hinges, which is an apt metaphor for Griffith truly has become unhinged. And maybe Guts should feel guilty to hurt him, scare him like this, or disturbed at the sudden, almost, obsessive attachment he now has. 

But no, he’s undeniably, singularly happy about it. Griffith will never allow him to be lost, and it makes him feel found. The behelit swings as he staggers through, as if it had heard what transpired, and was trying to break free, perhaps slip through one of the gaps in his armor. It’s a good thing Griffith tries to plug those holes. 

He’s on the brink of passing out by the time they reach their base, almost completely drifted away, but Casca’s distressed cry pulls him out of it. 

“What happened? What’s going on??” 

Griffith’s already cutting Guts’ shirt open, now that he’s laid down and can finally rest— he pulls the material apart with just his hands, which still haven’t ceased shaking. 

Casca hovers at his bedside, and even in Guts’ bloodloss-induced haze, he can tell how scared she is. “I’m getting… pretty used to laying around like this..”

That doesn’t ease her fretful eyes, which quickly fill with tears. He winces and looks at Griffith instead, whose back is turned as he ransacks the drawers for medication. 

“Griffith…” She sounds so uncomfortable, unsure. “I can take care of him, you should also rest…” 

“No.” 

Griffith whips back around and holds a small bottle to Guts’ lips, carefully cupping the back of his head and guiding it upwards. Like this, Gut’s gets a full view of his own body, which is paling and decently torn up. The bleeding has somewhat clotted, but it’s already begun seeping through the messily wrapped bandages. Still, the red of the behelit was stark against them, open and out. There’s something vulnerable about having it visible; he feels a strong need to cover it, hide it, protect it. His gaze rises to meet Griffith’s, which is pushing right through his. Even after Guts swallows what he’s given and is laid back down, Griffith doesn’t look away. It’s reminiscent of the last time he was on this bed, so much so that his eye pains him more than his new wounds. He closes his remaining one. 

“Then.. I’ll go… I’ll call in the medic.”

“No. I’ll handle this.”

Griffith’s overbearingness makes him feel safe, and within minutes he passes out. 

And so, when he later wakes, the first thing he feels is panic when he realizes that Griffith has left. He sits up, or he tries; his body struggles to listen to him, heavy and hurt. 

Small hands immediately push his chest back down and his weak body can only comply. Oh, Casca— he saw her but instantly forgot, she wasn’t the one he wanted at his bedside. 

“Guts! Lay down, you shouldn’t move yet—“

“Where’s Griffith?” 

Casca’s face of worry quickly deteriorates into one of anger. “You two don’t always have to be together.” She pulls her hands back like he had burnt her. “This is the first time I’ve spoken to you alone in weeks.”

She’s left his mind, everyone has— it was full of Griffith Griffith Griffith. For all the years they’ve known each other and all the time spent, it was never enough. Even now, as they spend every day, all their time together, Guts still doesn’t feel quite satisfied. 

“I, I felt like I was finally getting to know you— to understand you! I even almost li—“ She shook her head to throw the thought out. “What’s going on with you and Griffith?”

Guts grits his teeth in frustration; he doesn’t want to explain himself to her— not to Casca, who felt the same way as Guts had, resigned to their cast. Guts has broken out of it though, tore his way through, and now with only one arm, he can’t pull her up with him. 

“I… wanted you to stay but… not like this…” Her face is wet with tears, and it’s odd to see her like this, so openly and freely vulnerable. “You were so set on going… what happened? If you really want to leave, then I could even help you—“ 

“I don’t want to leave.”

She swings a fist at him, and he allows it, but rather than a blow, she collapses against his chest. He can’t bring himself to help hold her up. “What happened to having your own dream??”

He had given up on it, forgotten it, in favor of what’s comfortable. What can he say? He’s not so noble, so independent to go after what is right with such conviction. If that were his nature, he never would have joined the band of the hawk to begin with. 

This was the reason he never sought Casca. The judgement, the disappointment, it wore on him heavily, forever picking at wounds first wrought in childhood. There was little room, justification for complaint though, not when he had believed that judgement. 

Only Griffith who never insulted him, who welcomed and used all of Guts’ qualities, who needed and liked them. Of all the orders he’s received from Griffith, changing himself was never one of them. Yes, only Griffith who appreciates him, who acknowledges him. 

It’s not enough to wear the name dream, but it’s been what he always wanted. It’s what he sought from his phantom parents, from Gambino, from just— anyone willing to look. And Griffith had seen him that day, the very day they met, and found him worthy. Important, immeasurably so. 

That desire grows stronger and stronger as Griffith feeds it, quickly growing into a need, where any absence is deeply noted. Want is the beginning of a tumor, the first mutated cell, initially undetected, but killable if found. Need is the last stage of a cancer, completely overtaking its host, spreading until it’s indistinguishable, indivisible from its receptacle. 

He swallows. “We’re friends. That’s… enough for me.”

She bangs against his chest. “He believed what he said that night.” Her voice shakes. “I know him, I know when he’s being honest. You’re still not equal to him.”

“Well, he was wrong!” And now he’s raising his voice, even though he told himself he wouldn’t do that anymore, that he’s changed, no longer brash mean selfish. It’s just like with Zodd, vehemently denying the facts, the truth— but Griffith’s word is truth, and so Guts won’t believe any other voice besides his. 

“I changed his mind.” Quieter now, but his voice is still rough, like the words were being pushed out of him. 

“Guts.. look what he did to you…” 

Whatever pain his injuries inflicted on him, the behelit soothed. “You wouldn’t understand. I changed. I’m not like you anymore.” 

He clutches it, despite how it seems to scorch his hand, like a flaming piece of coal, glowing red as it burns. Zodd’s words were lost on him, and there’s no way to know if it was even true— but he wonders, can they avoid their supposed fate if he keeps the behelit? 

King, he’d said king— this doesn’t represent Griffith’s dream, it literally holds it. If so, Guts should return it… it means everything to Griffith. 

But he doesn’t want to… not yet. Isn’t that equally as cruel as what’s been done to Guts? Then, isn’t that fair? 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

It’s that Guts is no Icarus, that the sun moved to him, outstretched its rays for him to grasp. So what if he couldn’t reach there on his own, who cares whether he crafted wings or brought the sky down— he also doesn’t care what it takes to get what he wants. 

He wears his burns with pride, for he’s the only one that touched that fire, cupped his hands over it, smothered it— he welcomes its spread up his arms, for then he is also part of it . 

He sits up again, shaking off her touch. “Where’s Griffith? Why did he leave?”

Her smile’s bitter, eyes still wet. “Charlotte went missing last night. The king summoned him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah this was only gonna be 1 chapter but i realized it’s more impactful when drawn out (also i’m extremely influenciable when being complimented ahaha) soo let’s see where this goes. big thank you to everyone for the positive reception, it really means a lot!


	2. ch 2

Griffith wasn’t particularly worried when he came to meet the king. Charlotte was specifically instructed to tell no one that they were meeting; and though she’s foolish, she’s trustworthy. 

This can actually work out— the king will undeniably be grateful to have his daughter rescued and would be greatly indebted to the band of the hawk. This may be more effective than their original plan— and so there’s no need for panic. He even knows exactly where to look. 

After Zodd’s appearance, he had completely forgotten about her, but she must have stayed at their meeting spot the entire night. The entire night passed and he hadn’t thought about her a single time. 

So reckless, foolish, uncharacteristic of him. He could have left while Guts was asleep, he could have been fast, he could have prevented this—

But, had he remembered Charlotte, he still may not have left Guts’ side that night. 

Charles is folded within his seat, like his backbone was torn out of him, which truly does represent the situation. The stress seems to wind his flesh tight against his skull, like he were collapsing from within, sunken eyes being swallowed into their sockets, like snails retreating into their shells. The way his cheekbones protrude is a striking show of his hunger, open and desperate. The greatest difference between hunger and desire is pride. Desire is noble, powerful, a driving force, while hunger is simply crippling. Griffith feels no such thing. 

“As you’ve been told, my daughter has gone missing last night. We found her room untouched, but the window open. I don’t…” His calm facade, already fragile, cracks along with his voice, little gaps of vulnerability evident in the creases in his face. Like this, he looks so old, ordinary— definitely not like a king. “I don’t know where she could have gone… I can’t tell if she left on her own, or if someone has taken her— I always tell her to keep that window locked, but she can be so careless sometimes—!” He buries his ruddy face into his hands, smothers a whimper. 

Maybe Griffith could have felt some remorse for him, if he weren’t an incestuous pedophile. “I will have my entire army search for her. I doubt she was harmed; if she were taken, it would be in order to blackmail you. She’s more useful alive than dead.” 

No, she probably fell asleep while waiting, or got lost within the dark. That would be no surprise. 

The pragmatism seems to calm him, somewhat; he lifts his face from his hands to look at Griffith hopefully, but not the least bit satiated. “Whatever you need, just ask. Find her. Please.” 

Griffith kneels, bows his head, closes his eyes. “I guarantee you that we will.” 

A real king would find her himself, would rise from the throne and dirty his own hands to take back what is his. But no, Charles is just a prop atop a gilded chair, reducing its value, acting as a placeholder. A true testament to how blood has no correlation to worthiness. 

A thought comes to him as he rises. “...It would greatly help my search if my best soldier can have a prosthetic arm.”

Part of him doesn’t want to, wants to keep it from Guts, wants him to stay weakened, like clipping a bird’s wings to stop them from flying. But Guts loves to fight, and Griffith wants to give that to him. 

And he knows, trust trust trust, but doing and knowing is more solid than trusting; he’d rather ensure that what he wants happens than simply hope it does. He never predicted an outcome like this, with the sudden ambush— completely unaccounted for, and now he reels from the consequences. 

Griffith has always believed in fate, believed he would have the greatness he sought, and so he wonders which parts of this is and isn’t fate. Zodd said he’s strayed from it— and so is this the correct one? 

“..Of course. I’ll send a raven to my personal blacksmith, he’ll begin right away.”

Griffith is then quickly whisked away to collude with the other advisors, where they study and mark different parts of a map in unlikely attempts to trace the princess. It’s been 24 hours since his last sleep, but this is a common occurrence for Griffith, and drawing plans with the king’s finest required little brain activity. His thoughts are actually more preoccupied with Guts, who’s alone, with Casca, probably awake by now. Asking where he is, wondering— no, but knowing Griffith wouldn’t just leave without reason. He can bear with this, with being apart from Guts in necessary moments like these… but leaving Guts in another’s company is different. 

No, he trusts him… or he should. Guts hasn’t given him reason to doubt him— but last night when he tried to pull away, it gave Griffith dark thoughts— he’d cut off that arm if it stopped him again. 

Though hasn’t Griffith betrayed Guts’ trust— frozen in the face of— not fear, maybe fear would have been acceptable, as it’s a base reaction, a flaw in human design, impersonal, inevitable. But he wasn’t scared. The entire time he knew Zodd wouldn’t hurt him, which is impossible, ridiculous— though it proved to be true, even as Griffith struck him. Now that was no deduction, took no thought— that was instinctual. It’s impossible. 

And so why didn’t he immediately move, when he saw Zodd begin to attack Guts, with a gut feeling he himself would be spared? Why didn’t he take advantage of that and prevent Guts from getting injured in the first place? 

Because he wanted to hear Zodd’s words— 

The behelit saved his life, he already believed it to have some kind of mystic power, he gave it to Guts despite that— no, because of that. If one of them is to be saved, to live, he wants it to be Guts…. right? 

His actions showed otherwise, but when he tries and fathoms a future without Guts, his dream, which once shone so brightly, fades into the dark, the light disappearing along with Guts, like he were the source of it, like he were… eclipsing it. 

When had he last thought of it— really been in it, like a lucid dream, the faces of his subjects, the size of his castle, his banner plastered all over—all with a readied place, and Griffith just needs to put them there. But now; it’s like he’s forgotten what a person looks like, all their faces blur, and when he squints, tries to discern what’s there, it’s Guts’ face— and when he tries looking away, looks towards that ever desired castle— it’s gone, there’s only Guts, Guts Guts Guts. Like his sleep was disturbed and he fell into a new dream. And one cannot control a dream, which is dictated by the subconscious. 

He can’t imagine, can’t want a life without Guts— this he’s sure of, as long as he has this stricken heart, he’ll always need Guts. Never, never would he sacrifice him— 

But hasn’t he considered, tried killing him? No no, those were dark impulses, and had he followed them, he never would have recovered— the moment he carried it out, he would have died, like a lovers suicide. 

He continues conversing in his peripheral, with vaguely reassuring and confident suggestions, but he’s barely aware of what he’s saying. 

Something snags itself in the edge of his vision, drags his view towards it, in the corner of the room, right beside Griffith. It’s so small he normally would overlook it but— something about the way it catches light, or rather, deflects it, an unnaturally dark spot in the room, like someone had died there. He turns to it, has to kneel down to find it, expecting some form of vermin. 

It’s… some sort of creature, unfamiliar to him, vaguely humanlike but severely deformed, shrunken, some parts boney and others lumpen. What must be… hands, stretch towards him, and without even thinking, he mirrors the gesture, and just his finger outmatches its entire form, he’s certain he could crush it, were he to close his hand. But he doesn’t, not even when it stretches its spindly body forward to mash its face against his knuckle, like… a kiss, like a humble greeting. He still doesn’t pull away. 

“Blessed king of longing..” A raspy voice, small and desperate, and the few words exhausts it— it shrinks back into the shadows like it were one itself, which seems very possible, as there is nothingness when he tries and follows it with his touch. 

An… illusion? Borne of fatigue? 

When he turns back around, it appears no one had seen or heard it, which furthered his doubt. And it’s only then that he sees Guts at the door, towering over the guards. 

“Lemme through!” He’s scowling, pushing past them, unhindered by his injuries and their protests, but he stops once his eyes meet Griffith’s. The immediate brightness on his face is just endearing, and Griffith can’t help but reflect that light, the first time he’s smiled in hours. 

Griffith approaches the guards with newfound energy and it only takes his word for Guts to be admitted in… along with Casca. The jealousy strikes him instantly, a sour taste on his tongue, like biting into the apple in Eden, the rush and severity of emotion exactly how he envisioned Eve had felt. 

Griffith grabs his elbow, pulls him away from her, mindful to stifle his anger in front of Casca. “I can’t believe you can already walk. You always surprise me.”

Guts grins, pounds a fist against his chest. “I don’t go down easy.”

Griffith slides his hand up Guts’ arm to his shoulder, pretending to examine the wound. The lack of resistance is reassuring. “I feel like you’ve been healing faster and faster.”

Casca’s eyes narrow for just a moment, and Griffith pretends not to catch it. This isn’t tactful, he’s aware; showing favoritism breeds instability from faith based organizations like theirs. There’s no strong justification for being openly possessive over Guts— the only reason he can give is that he wants to. He wants Guts with him (always, forever) and so he’s going to act on that. If he doesn’t, if his hold loosens, Guts may try to leave again—

Casca moves into his line of vision. “What’s the plan? They want the band of the hawk to help find her?” 

“I have an idea where she could be. Guts and I will go look.”

She frowns. “What happened to moving in squads? It’s dangerous if you two are alone, we don’t know how many kidnappers there could have been..”

“If Guts can’t handle them, then an entire squad would make no difference.”

To his side, he catches Guts slightly blushing from the praise, and when their eyes connect Guts gives him a small smile. 

“Even when he’s mis—“ 

“Yes.” He lets his anger bite into his voice, gouge out his normal placidity. Her mouth shuts so fast it’s almost audible. 

Her mouth has always been closed since, lips pursed, words on her tongue but never permitted exit. The watchguard was Griffith, and in his absence, he can only imagine what was slipped across the trench. And how dare she, after the work and care taken to dig said trench, to create as island of only him and Guts. No outsiders allowed. 

She shrinks, breaks their eye contact. “...Understood.”

Griffith turns away, indicating she can leave, which she does, but not after a final meaningful look at Guts. Guts mirrors him, but there’s a lag, a moment spared to return that look. The jealousy worsens, sours, to the point where the acidity may poison him. Like this, he may be evicted from Eden. 

“Did she say anything to you?”

He asks, but he knows she did. He knows her. But Griffith and Casca have a fatal difference, the obstacle that prevented Casca from nearing him, the no man’s land between them. She’s dedicated to what is right, will fight for a moral cause, will strive for goodness— kindness, caringness, rather than greatness— valor, strength. She only asks that Guts be good, with a voice that pushes. Griffith tells him to be great, and, with a bloodied and war-calloused hand, pulls him up there. 

She has changed him, has shown him where he errs, in terms of teamwork and consideration. Were they left alone together forever, she could probably turn him into a good man, kind and just with his own sake of morality, which he allows to dictate his life. 

What sort of life is that, though? Griffith doesn’t want a “good” Guts, who takes the word of what is supposed to be right, which grew murky as it passed down many mouths over many years, like a great river which branches into a stream, into a trickle, which is not nearly enough for sustenance, substance. 

Guts has always done what’s convenient, comfortable— a trait commonly viewed as a show of laziness, or apathy, but it’s rather the opposite. It’s a show of independence, individuality, to reject what others deem right. It becomes that much more meaningful that he chooses to follow Griffith. Not led by Griffith’s promises nor charisma, but simply by him. Not obedience, but loyalty, trust. 

Is there anything Guts wouldn’t do for him? That he wouldn’t forgive him for?

Casca thinks, or has thought, that she loves Griffith, but her morality precedes him. Had she the full knowledge of all that he’s done, he’s sure her disgust would even outweigh her gratitude to their army, and that she would desert it. Already, she’s caught a glimpse of it, and she’s already taken a few steps back. Either stay in place or run ahead— this sort of backtracking, cowardice frustrates— disinterest him. What she feels doesn’t rise to the surface with its heat, shivering with its need to burst out, like the bubbling that anticipates boiling. Were she to stumble into that no man’s land, the stretch of land between their respective fortresses, she’d find piles of bodies… and maybe even a few stray bullets her way. 

Torn between their beckoning hands, Guts looks away from him, and even that is too much distance. “...She asked why I didn’t leave.”

Casca has always sided with Griffith, he had taken that for granted, and carelessly showed her a cruel part of him. He has to drag her back to his side; he could reinforce their bond, appeal to her sense of respect and gratitude. Or ward her away from Guts, crush the newfound attachment she held for him. 

But maybe he doesn’t have to resort to such underhanded methods. Maybe all he has to do is… ask. 

“Guts. I don’t want you to spend time alone with Casca. She can’t understand how you’ve changed.”

And it’s like every other time he’s given Guts an unfair order. The question hangs in the air like a ghost, like a spirit borne of guilt and anxiety, with an unmoved face of disapproval, disgust. Griffith hasn’t the power to exterminate it, can only avert his eyes and pretend he can’t see it. But Guts vanquishes it with a single nod. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”

Griffith smiles and buried his face into the crook of Guts neck, who jolts but stands still, a little fear but a lot of anticipation. Again, no rejection. Last night’s reaction wasn’t rooted in any desire of distance, then. Relieved, he fully relaxes where he is, the fatigue finally given permission to invade. Guts places an awkward hand between his shoulder blades. 

“Ah, by the way, your prosthetic arm has been speed tracked. It may already be ready once we reach the blacksmith; the king made it top priority.”

“Woah, that’s fast. Nice.”

A moment of peace, the two of them standing there. Then, “...Maybe I can match Zodd… next time.”

Griffith’s grip on him tightens. “I’ll kill him for you. I swear.”

“...That stuff he said…”

Griffith clings tighter, and it’s to both pull Guts closer and away. 

“Hey! Where’s Charlotte?” 

Griffith peeks out over Guts’ shoulder, and it’s Charlotte’s handmaiden, who he had only ever greeted before, as she were dubious and distant. Who wasn’t, towards a common blood courting royalty. She shows no reaction to Guts, and instead addresses Griffith with a distressed yet intent voice. Annoying, but welcome at this exact time.

He closes his eyes and holds a hand over his heart. “We’re beginning a search right away. We hope to find her before the night en—“

“Don’t lie to me— she told me she was meeting with you last night. Where did you take her?? 

Griffith already expected Charlotte to gossip with her handmaiden, but decided it inconsequential, as they would never do anything to cross their princess. Another unforeseen consequence from an unforeseen circumstance. 

Guts’ arm clenches in response to the aggression in her voice, and he turns them both around so that he faces her instead of Griffith. “We never got to her. We dunno where she went, but we’ll get her, so just wait.” 

“N— How am I supposed to trust you? Neither of you are even from respected houses! How do I know you didn’t— kidnap and rape her!”

Guts’ touch lifts from Griffith’s back to reach for the hilt of his sword, but Griffith intercepts his hand. As much as Griffith enjoys the show of protectiveness, he can’t allow Guts to escalate the encounter; he slips out of Guts’ hold to face her properly. “I would never do anything to harm the princess. I too am distressed by her absence, and will not rest until we uncover her. I assure you, she will be found.”

She steps back, placated but not yet relieved. “If you guys don’t bring her back by tonight… I’m gonna tell the king..!”

Griffith doesn’t allow his anger to pierce through his demeanor. Beside him, Guts’ huge body, tenses with anger, nearly shakes with it, does well to convey how Griffith is feeling. He bows his head and takes her hand, quick enough so that she can’t retract it. “I give you my word.” 

She reclaims it just as quickly, and her eyes remind him of Casca’s. An unsettling anxiety fills him, a premonition, like the blinding flash of lightening foretelling thunder. He can’t allow it to blind him. 

He’s the first to break eye contact, but he doesn’t turn to Guts like last time; he goes for the door before she can.

And Guts, of course, follows him. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the fluff i’m ramping up for smth big in the next chap!
> 
> fyi the day of the eclipse is different in this fic… i’m very anti time skip and i’m not writing a whole year of action lol


	3. ch 3

Griffith is quiet, unsettlingly so. Not that they always filled time talking; neither were the type nor felt the inclination to spend time like that. Rather than the silence, it’s the solemn look on his face. It’s a guarded one, practically the same as donning his falcon shaped helmet, both a blanket of impassivity, of cold caution. It’s silly, and yet Guts feels as if they’re being watched, as if the behavior were indicative of danger. But it must be, for if not, then this face is up for Guts’ sake, then he’s the one being shut out. 

There’s a particularly loud rustle behind them and Griffith whips around so quickly that Guts is shaken off of him. He turns back around just as fast, eyes still wide and alert. 

“Ya think Zodd’s gonna be here?”

Griffith takes a moment to answer, like just speaking was dangerous. “Yes. Maybe.”

The suspicion isn’t unfounded; Guts feels a similar dread that he experienced the night before. The moonlight has a reddish tint, reminiscent of the color of Zodd’s eyes. But somehow, it’s just, different. He lacks the sense of danger.. at least, from an outside source. 

He’d somehow forgotten, (perhaps because this was a sort of spring— no, an eden, devoid of seasons), but it’s still winter, they’re in fact at the crux of it. The wind is harsh against his face, scraping the moisture out of his skin, his lips. As if it possessed its own will, its own desire to sap out his heat. 

Despite his frame, Guts shivers from it, bites his lips to ease the dryness. Griffith appears entirely unaffected. Even now, he maintains such dignity and beauty, even among such violent wind. There’s still grace in the way his hair is pulled around, like the air is reaching out to touch and feel, to comb and admire it. It’s almost regal, almost resembles how a banner flaps in the wind, steadfast against its forces. The show of resilience comforts Guts, gives him the confidence to bridge over the tension. 

“Blegh. It’s cold.” Guts throws an arm around him— his left arm— and Griffith shakes it right off, shoulders frigid in surprise and cold. 

Guts only grins and presses the back of his metallic hand to Griffith’s cheek, who breaks the face of heed for a wince. “Switch sides with me.”

“If I lick it, maybe it’ll stick to ya.”

Griffith huffs and comes over to his right on his own. “You should always be on the left. Make use of the eye you have.” The metal arm is due to and given by Griffith, and yet he shows a preference for the organic one, subtly avoiding touching the mechanical counterpart. Similarly, Guts avoids analyzing that. 

Guts himself is intensely aware of where his arm connects with the prosthetic, the biting cold of the metal somehow useless against the freshly burnt nerves. It’s odd, to force two things together in such a way, organic and inorganic. To just char them together, break them down simultaneously so that they fuse in the confusion of building back up. He’s tricked his body into thinking that his arm has returned, but the unending ache acts like his body’s subconscious. 

But an arm’s what he wanted, so the pain doesn’t matter to him. Now he can hold a sword with both hands, can keep himself grounded. He’ll stay just as alert as Griffith, to prevent today from imitating yesterday. If Zodd comes— no, when he comes, Griffith’s intuition is sharp, prophetic— they’ll both come at him regardless of what he has to say (regardless of if Griffith wants to hear it). 

The mood is lighthearted, too much like it had been last night, at the very beginning. Guts doesn’t want to spoil it again, with unwanted, unnecessary words. There’s much to talk about, but if Griffith doesn’t breach it, Guts will let sleeping dogs lie. He’s been mauled enough as it is. 

He slips a hand under his shirt to clutch the behelit, an action not lost to Griffith’s watchful eyes, but it goes uncommented. It’s very much like a living thing but has no warmth; if anything, it leeches it away, a cold spot on his chest, against his heart, like a ghost. He squeezes it hard, gives it his frustration instead. 

A fog begins to settle, like the clouds were are from the sky, bursting upon impact like bombs. Solidifying before the smoke can dissipate, like hail suspended in air. The wind is so coarse that he wouldn’t be surprised if there were some crystals of ice mixed in there, stowing away in the cracks in his skin. He should just cover his face if he found the cold so stinging, but that’s too much like hiding. He wants to be ready. Present. 

It thickens the further they go, but there’s not much they can do about it besides remain on guard. Guts finds that he doesn’t mind it at all, not when Griffith grips the crook of his arm, the heavy touch a long awaited warmth. 

Unlike with Zodd, he feels it before he sees it, like the mist froze and trapped him in place. He feels that ice being splintered apart before he sees the source. He doesn’t want to— can’t turn around, not now, if he does— he’ll be killed, he knows this. 

But he must, lest he lets it strike him down without a fight— he whirls around, swinging his sword with one hand as the other shoves Griffith backwards— but he cuts into nothing, that menacing aura vanishing along with its figure. 

He’s taken by complete surprise when he turns back around and it’s already there; A complete skeleton, so enshrouded in fog that Guts would believe it to be a figment of his imagination, were it not for the heavy presence it emitted. Not nearly as large as Zodd, though it still towered over them. Its skull is eyeless, but there are little balls of light deep in the sockets, like a little torch were contained there. Completely, undeniably, inhuman, from its appearance to its abilities. 

“You. Struggler. The eclipse is incoming. You and your friends, those yet unseen of the fleshless flesh, and that unkingly half of yours— all shall be gathered then at that place.”

It steps forward and a masked face— an animal— a horse? Approaches behind it, mask skull-like, but real life eyes could be seen underneath. And— oh, that’s Charlotte’s collapsed atop it! Her face buried in its mane, but her head whips up in their presence. 

Doe eyed as ever but now red, frantic, wounded— he can see the full perfect circles of her irises, and even of her pupils, constricted in the dark, but stark again the bright blue of her eyes. Bloodshot and puffy, her voice too reveals that she must have cried the entire day— “Griffith! Griffith, please, I’m so scared—“ 

The horse ducks down and gently brings Charlotte to the floor, who collapses despite the careful departure. Her rise is equally clumsy, legs shaking and arms held out dazedly, blind reaches for help which is graciously answered by Griffith’s offered hand, at her wrist and guiding her correctly upwards. Her gratitude is shown with messy tears buried into his chest, along with some hiccuped words Guts can’t hear from his vantage point. Griffith’s eyes connect with his and while still sharp, they’re relieved, which in turn allows Guts to relax as will, as minimally as afforded. 

Her eyes won’t even stray towards Guts but he doesn’t care, doesn’t want them anyway. This is perfect, now they’ll just take her and go, the skeleton is in fact beckoning them to do just that. They’re safe, Griffith is safe, and everything can resume for now, he’s so relieved he reaches for the behelit, assured. 

That booming voice sounds first, however, holding him in place. “A torrent of madness, a tempest of death for which the human body could never atone, shall sweep over you! 

It steps back, disappears, dissolves into the surrounding fog, but reappears just as smoothly from behind Guts, steed at its side. 

“Take heed, struggler. In order to stop the fated day, you must drag him and yourself out of that path, not stand before him. No matter which of you stands forward, by being where you are, you elicit the eclipse. 

It’s as much nonsense as when Zodd says it, but somehow, Guts understands— Griffith is the sun, dragging the moon in his wake. He understands, but he knows better, better than some fucking bag of bones. 

“Who the hell are you?” he manages to choke out, past the lump of dread in his throat. “How do you know about us?” 

Without a face, it doesn’t emote, doesn’t even show indication of hearing him, content to spew pretty little cryptic tales about prophecy. He grips his sword tight, impatience throttling better judgement. 

“You three cannot all be in this land. It is either her, or you. Test the bounds of human capacity and you will inevitably turn to the unnatural for a phantom of balance. But understand,” 

It seems to hover closer without taking any real step, fog swirling around them like a small tornado, sucking the three of them into its eye. He can’t feel, can’t see anything around them, could’ve fucking teleported for all he knew. “A choice must be made. Full dedication cannot be divided.”

These words, they must be for Griffith, for he’s the one with a dream, and yet those eye hollows seem to follow Guts. Which is dumb, because he  _ is _ committed, has an eye and arm to show for it. 

He can’t put that into words, however; that focused look keeps him silenced for as long as it’s pinned onto him, like a layer of smoke enveloping him, suffocating him. 

Griffith releases him though, by speaking first. “You mean.. to return her, and leave without credit. Or to kill her here.” 

Guts frowns and looks at the other two, confused. That wouldn’t make any sense, that thing has been protecting her this entire time; if it wanted her dead, neither of them could stop that. 

However, the skeleton nods. “It is the choice between your two dreams. Between selfishness and selflessness.”

Griffith looks to Guts, wordless, and Guts understands. He’s being asked what to do. 

Doesn’t this show the choice already?

And this is what pulls Guts free from where his feet were crushed between glaciers, what actually unsheathes his sword. Screw instincts, they can do this— Griffith successfully cut into Zodd the previous night and Guts is the better fighter between the two of them, he can do even better, go even further. Of course he can, when Griffith is trusting him like this. 

His weapon becomes three times lighter in his hands, he points it with ease at the opposition. “You can’t fucking see into the future, don’t give us that shit. Griffith’s strong enough for both. You have no idea what he’s capable of.” He grins, sadistic, confident. “How about we show ya right now by killing you?”

He doesn’t need to look at Griffith then to catch him smiling too, in his peripheral. He’s already sliding his helmet back on, unsheathing his own sword. 

Without another thought, Guts lunges forward, drives his sword into the skeleton, who doesn’t bother dodging. It undoubtedly sinks in, but he only knows this visually— physically, it’s like cutting into water, the struck areas parting before closing right back up. bewildered, Guts slashes him a few more times, but the result is unabated. What the fuck can you do to someone you can’t cut? 

Guts continues his efforts regardless, under the possibility a certain area can be pierced, but no, apparently its entire being is intangible. Which is frustrating by itself, and so the skeleton’s nonchalance towards Guts’ attacks has him incensed. 

The skeleton raises a hand in an indication to stop, which Guts only obeys because of how utterly ridiculous it is in this situation, which is the only reason he hears the approach of another. 

Ah, it’s Zodd, of course, why not. Not like this night could get even crazier. He deadass barrels through, driving straight into the skeleton, who jumps high up in the air to avoid him, like it’s nothing. “Skull Knight!” 

It— Skull Knight, as it seems, nods in acknowledgement, descending back down airily, now turned to face Zodd rather than Guts. 

Now Zodd’s before Griffith, and Skull Knight before Guts. Not in opposition, however, more like… defense. Guts can only see Zodd between the gaps of the skeleton’s ribs, and Griffith is completely shielded by the monster’s body, hunched and poised to attack. 

“I cannot interfere with destiny.”

“Yes. I wouldn’t allow it.”

The skeleton hitches a leg over his horse, which huffs and bows its head. “You have no more right than I.”

Zodd is larger, undeniably, both taller and wider, but he is flesh. Zodd is a monster but this skeleton is… Guts doesn’t even know. Guts doesn’t know which one to even root for, or if he should join the fight. Their “fights” (too brief to deserve the title, but Guts will be damned if he called them beatings) showed him that they’re on a complete other level, too high above to so much as touch, but both Guts and Griffith are all about transcending limits, right?

“It is you whom proposes killing the girl.”

“Your actions show an uncertainty in fate.”

Zodd is the first to attack, bared teeth smilelike, brutality increased tenfold from his fight with Guts. A single blow like that would have been an instant kill if turned at Guts, and the thought makes his stomach turn. The skeleton parries them with ease, lacking Zodd’s excitement but nonetheless fully engaged. Guts considers taking advantage of the distraction to just grab Charlotte and go, or maybe surprise attack one of them, but he can’t tear his eyes away, mesmerized. 

“The sacrifice was born to die. The king was born to join the godhand. The girl’s life is insignificant.”

Their swords lock against each other, unwavering at the point where they connect, as they both have equally matched strength and force. 

“Were she not instrumental to their destinies, you would have no objection for her to die now.”

The skeleton intentionally wavers, so that its sword slides against and off of Zodd’s, and it uses the momentum to angle sharply towards— towards—

Griffith— who miraculously reaches Charlotte first and pushes her aside, but it’s not one of those good miracles, because he hadn’t the time to raise his sword. And so they all fall silent, even the surrounding nature, as Griffith staggers and bends over, hunched down and turned to the side, hands clamping against his face, hair caught in between. Time resumes when he slowly, shakily rises. 

He’s completely uninjured, paled face absent of the dreaded red, and Guts can only let out half of a relieved breath before he finds the damage. 

The front few locks of Griffith’s hair, the very same locks that Guts had been watching earlier, gone— on the left side of his face, raggedly cut above his chin, what remained curling upwards sharply as if reaching out for what it lost. Never, never has Guts seen Griffith with short hair, it was always long and flowing, soft and silky, and it’s hair, just hair, but it made him look angelic, otherworldly— the light reflected off it like a halo, the silver as striking as the genuine coin. Others had hair long or light colored, but simply not like Griffith, not as soft and sheen. It wasn’t what made him special but it was a mark of it, a notice to all, of Griffith’s superiority. 

So, the sight sets Guts off, as much as a real wound would have. His body moves before requesting permission from his mind, and by the time the action registers he’s already slicing into the Skull Knight’s body— or he thought, but it dissipates into smoke, the lack of resistance against his sword infuriating. He needs to feel that thick drag of cutting through flesh, feel the blood that sprays in desperate retaliance, needs to know that his enemy is hurt, on the brink of fucking death. He won’t calm until then, until he sinks his hand in and drags him, drags both of them down to his level, below, so he can fucking stomp on them. With their fucking meddling and interference, bullshit warnings and advice, fuck off, Griffith and Guts only need each other, damn it. 

“My actions were misleading, do not misunderstand— I do not intend to harm her, I cannot. All I may submit are my words.”

If Guts could get his hands on one of their swords, maybe he’ll stand a chance— something seems special about them, they’ve gotta be made of something different. The logic just barely manages to reach his fury addled brain, but it sinks, and so he 

It’s just like Griffith that previous night, he just,  _ knows _ that the skeleton wouldn’t hurt him. It’s unmoved, assured that if Guts couldn’t cut it with a sword, his own hands are harmless, and it’s only when Guts leaps up and grasps the hilt of its sword that it reacts. 

“You cannot— Listen to me, for your own sake—“

The pullback has the sword slide from his hands, over the hilt and onto the blade, fuck it’s so strong, Guts can’t wrestle it from its hands—

But it’s freed at the very moment it cuts into his palm, he falls backward in recoil, onto his back against the ground looking up at the skeleton, whose hands are still held midair, perhaps equally as shocked as Guts is. It recovers faster, however, jumping off its horse in one smooth movement to retrieve what it released, but Guts grabs proper hold of it by then and sloppily brandishes it in warning. 

Which is promptly followed by hands raised in peace. “I can speak, but I cannot make you listen. Still, I hope it eventually reaches you, that you are condemning not only yourself, but your comrades. Already, there is much unspoken, which paves the way towards your doomed path. What you desire is not unachievable, but this is not the way to succeed it.”

Guts is too busy climbing to his feet, wiping the blood off his hand and the blade to prevent it from slipping, charging forward. Without a weapon for defense, it can only block with its shield, but Guts is undeterred, swinging and slashing with all his might. He throws his entire body into it, clenches the weapon so hard he can almost feel his metal hand splinter against it. It’s tiny compared to what he’s used to, more of a knife in comparison, though he compensates size with speed, swiping again and again and again—

The horse is taking off and he doesn’t even realize he’s chasing them, doesn’t hear whatever stupidass parting words Skull Knight makes, precision and control exchanged for strength in his desperation. His one eye is unblinking in his concentration, obsessively trained on the knight, even as its horse departs from the air and fucking starts flying off. 

He does look away, finally, when he feels the sword connect with something. Griffith’s face comes to his eyes before he looks down, an image projected in fear, bloodied and shocked, but thankfully, fortunately, it's not him. 

...It’s Charlotte, who he completely forget about, despite her retrieval being the purpose behind this whole thing. He gapes, apology on his tongue, but she seems to immediately faint from what he hopes is shock rather than pain. 

It’s not even that bad though, she wasn’t very much in his range, just a little slash through the front of her dress, maybe a bit of blood, but it’s shallow, definitely. Still, he grimaces, regret dampening his anger, and he turns to give Griffith that apology instead, and oh, he’s right there behind him, a little too close— 

A hand draws him down and in— it’s not strong enough to move him, but Griffith’s hand, Guts will follow, quickly, blindly— and they kiss. Their lips are cold, but Griffith’s mouth opens a crack and it’s  _ hot _ — over the seam of Guts’ lips, which immediately opens for him, for  _ him _ , and he can feel the drag of Griffith’s tongue over his teeth, his own tongue, the roof of his mouth. Like he’s being tasted, eaten, and the hands at his front won’t stop pulling him forward, impossibly closer, unsatisfied with being flush against one another. As if to completely draw him in, past the confines of their bodies; Guts hopes, he really does wish, that Griffith’s efforts will succeed and he’ll be completely pulled into him, like the artificial arm to his bicep, melded together with heat and manpower. The behelit wiggles between them, or perhaps it’s just their heartbeats, wild enough to distort their chests, their armor. 

Griffith tastes like blood, but Guts is learning to like that taste, wants to taste like that too. Only Griffith can make something so foul as blood taste sweet. This is nothing like Guts had imagined, but only because he never dared imagine it. 

It sounds ridiculous at this point, but Guts never considered their relationship as romantic, though it matches all the symptoms. Possessiveness, admiration, a certain level of.. attraction. Griffith had always felt too… holy to touch, however, and so Guts had been satisfied to simply want him by his side. But now, liplocked, he realizes that he can venture to be more greedy. 

And so he grabs a fistful of hair at the back of Griffith’s neck to hold his face in place, hold him closer. It’s silky, like spiderwebs, and perhaps this is actually a bad idea… perhaps he’s becoming more enraptured, tangled..

But the thought leaves him as those hands slide up his to his shoulders, clawed and digging. Without his armor there would surely be scratches and he kinda wishes for them, for that marking. Even with an eye and an arm it’s still not enough, he wants more, more proof. And for it to be on Griffith as well, who has instead been marked by one undeserving. 

He breaks away, and Griffith follows, insistent and indignant, but Guts ducks his head to the junction of his neck and  _ bites _ . It’s nothing close to a kiss, though it has the same metallic taste as one, blood rising to his teeth’s calling. It’s mean and greedy but so what, Griffith allows him, gasping and grabbing his hair, his ears. It’s warm here, his whole body is warm at this moment. The only proof of winter now is the whistle of wind, but if Guts burrows his head further into Griffith, he can drown it out, let Griffith have all his senses. He doesn’t try it though, not now. 

He opens his eye (when did he shut it?) to find Griffith staring at him, eyes calm and concentrating. At some point Guts had cupped his face, with his organic hand, and when it drops, a bloody handprint is left in its wake, the only thing besides his eyes that catch light in this hazy moonlight. Fingertips beginning from his brow bone, and palm disappearing under the curve of his chin, Guts’ hand is large enough to nearly cover his entire face. A little larger and it would, could be smothering. 

They only successfully break away from one another when Guts feels the sword slip from his other hand, clattering to the ground and very nearly scraping his leg during its descent. It should be alarming, but his first thought is to laugh, a scoff that quickly rose into a full hearted laugh. He looks to Griffith and he’s laughing as well, giggling actually, resting their foreheads together with that childlike grin that Guts has missed. “We’ll show them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took longer than i wanted :( switched to a different antidepressant that’s destroying my energy levels ughh but now i’m not on anything and i’m off from school for a month so i’ll write as much as i can. i still care abt this fic and rly rly appreciate how nice everyone has been!! i gave y’all a kiss and feel good ending as a sorry for the wait (and for what i’m gonna do next ehehe)


	4. ch 4

The way back home was significantly shorter. 

Technically, it was actually longer, since Guts had to walk more slow and careful to accommodate for Charlotte. Not that she was too heavy to carry— he would’ve completely forgotten that she was in his arms except she wasn’t; she was draped over his shoulder so that he could have a hand free, if free means being tightly clasped within Griffith’s own hand. Guts finds it to be a perfect definition. 

At this point they’ve reached the dead of night where it’s its darkest and coldest, but it’s no incentive to walk any faster. Guts could hardly see, think, feel anything besides Griffith at this moment. His thumb circles around Guts’ calloused knuckles, over the scabs and ridges they were both responsible for. It’s probably the softest thing that’s ever touched him, anyway, in both texture and gesture. When people describe love as being wrapped around someone’s finger, they must mean this exact thing. 

He’s stolen a good number of glances, but he’s roughly even with Griffith at this point, which is a comfort. Their eyes interlock several times, and each time Guts fingers mimics this around Griffith’s. 

Griffith doesn’t only steal glances though— he swoops in, true to his title of a hawk, and snatches a kiss from Guts. Some are just pecks, others are full blown makeouts, where they both completely cease walking and kiss until Guts notices Charlotte slipping off his shoulder and very, very reluctantly pulls away. She very nearly falls over once— had Griffith not grabbed her ankle, she surely would’ve toppled over. But, who cares. Who can even think about something like that when Griffith is right by him, eager to touch. 

Why hadn’t they started doing this sooner? Guts feels cheated. There’s also something scandalizing about it, like they’re doing something they shouldn’t, but it’s a feeling he ignores. There’s no authority that can claim to be above them. 

Guts doesn’t want this, whatever this is, to end. And it’s not like this walk back home is the cause for this soft and sudden romance, but it provides a comfortable isolation, which steers Guts’ concentration exclusively onto the man at his side. Here, right now, there is no other goal or wish. Ironic, since that’s the cause for them even being here. It’s no stroll through the woods, it’s a hike up stairs, up over a podium, to a throne. 

It feels very far away at the moment, but not in a daunting, unachievable manner. More that it’s simply… irrelevant. He’d like to think that Griffith feels this too. 

Griffith is one to charge towards what he wants, not.. amble, in leisure, in an excess of indulgence. Because Guts isn’t an indulgence, he’s the main course. 

This kind of confidence is incredibly unlike him (at least, in this manner). He’s confident in what he’s earned, like strength, but not what he’s given, like love. And maybe that’s why he never crossed this line— because he lacked that final piece of confidence. But he’s taken it, swept it up with his tongue, and it’s sweet. Sweeter than ripping it out with his hands, which he had always thought was the greatest feeling. He licks his lips to moisten them and ah, there’s Griffith’s taste again, and just that thought has his face burn. 

That caution, that tension from before, has seeped out of him, evaporates from his skin and lightening his entire body. Those eyes are relaxed and cheery, finding Guts every time they strayed, hardly even once landing on the girl being carried along. 

By the time they get there it’s sunbreak, all picturesque and fairytale-like, and Guts can’t help but scoff. Is this really his life now? Something all sweet and soft like this? It doesn’t suit him one bit, but it dresses Griffith beautifully; His hair goes from silver to gold in the rich light, his scheme from cool to warm colors, and even the frayed ends of his cut hair is beautiful, gleaming. 

He reaches out and touches Griffith’s hair where it was cropped, and glowers “..I don’t want you to cut it more.” 

Griffith raised a brow. “You want me to keep it like this?”

“You could make it work.”

“I don’t think it’ll catch on.”

“Doesn’t hafta.”

Guts is hardly so.. generous with the nice words, but that mist must have stuck to them, budding from a sickly grey to rosy pink. He’d feel a little ridiculous if he wasn’t so swept up with it. 

He even forgets the behelit for a moment, his skin’s matched its temperature. It’s not any different from his prosthetic arm, which successfully moves how he wants it to. Everything feels so… right. Easy. 

They must’ve been spotted by a lookout because there’s no pause in welcoming them in once they reach the castle, ushered into the main room. Guts adjusts the princess in his arms, holding her bridal style, though the probable giant bruise on her stomach will serve as evidence of his rough handling. Whatever. She should just be happy to be back. 

Guts is comfortable, maybe even a little cocky, proud to have delivered upon his word. The king had how many people looking for this girl? And here she is, courtesy of Guts and Griffith, after just a single night. (Alright, it may be their fault in the first place, but recovering her is still an impressive feat.) 

The king is before them before they even reach the throne room, anxiety and impatience unhidden. He looks close to tears, and Guts might, might have been touched if Griffith hadn’t clued him in on this guy apparently wanting to fuck his daughter. Ew. 

“You— You found her, thank gods, oh…” Only slightly unwilling, Guts dumps Charlotte into his arms, watches the man stagger with her added weight. He doesn’t seem to mind, however, as he falls to his knees to cradle her, staring at her with gross desperate eyes. If only the people knew how useless their king was without her. 

He’s too preoccupied to so much as look at them, but Griffith kneels regardless. “She seemed to have not slept since she’s gone missing. I believe she’ll awake soon, in good health.”

“This is a great feat— I’m greatly indebted to you. If there’s any kind of reward you wish…”

Guts has to cough into his hand to hide a smile.

“But… why is she…?”

Guts blinks and looks at her completely, for what might be the first time. Her dress is cut open, from the neckline to her bellybutton, a gash large enough for.. everything to be on view. Huh, maybe she had been shivering, he was vaguely aware of that. This is pretty on brand for him, this kind of recklessness and disregard, but it’s very unlike Griffith… 

He risks a look and Griffith is openly shocked, which is yet another surprise— his specialty is coverups and composure, he’s always expecting the unexpected, everything is considered, planned. Except when it’s not. 

When it becomes clear that Griffith won’t (can’t?) respond, Guts takes on the task. “Uh… y’see, this guy— or, monster, I dunno— kidnapped her, and,—“

“Did you kill it?”

Ungrateful hardass. “We were too busy—“

“We prioritized getting Princess Charlotte out of there first. Upon your request, we can return to execute the kidnapper.” Stiff, but Griffith has somewhat returned, which is a load off. 

Charles looks relieved at this and seems to relax, at least relatively. “Is he from this kingdom?” 

“Uhh—“

“Yes.”

“Then yes. Bring me his head.” 

Guts touches his hip where his new sword (yes, it’s his now, fair and square) sits, completely overshadowed by his usual one. Maybe he could have it melted down and reforged, though. Any other shape would be better than this short dagger, with its lacking range and leverage. 

With this thing he can definitely match Zodd. Or that skeleton guy. Whatever, whoever. All of them. 

Charles then preoccupies himself with shaking Charlotte awake, with an almost humorous poor combination of care and franticness. It translates as slow but jerky movements, which only succeed in flopping her head back and forth and causing her dress to fall off one of her shoulders. Which ain’t a big deal, she’s got a bra underneath, but Charles’ eyes bug out at the sight. If Guts cared about her at all, he’d take her from his hands, nasty old man. But he’s no saint (and he is.. no no, was, he was a little jealous of her from the start)

It’s a surprise to them all when his efforts succeed and she daintily lifts her head, blinks in confusion. Her eyes are soft when they drift from Charles to Griffith, but they freeze upon Guts and she slips out of her father’s hands as she flees away from him. Yeah that makes him look bad. 

Guts can only blink and raise his hands defensively. “Uh. It’s not what you think.”

Charles looks at him, then at her, then at him again. And then he lunges. 

Unarmed, Guts raises his arms to defend himself, but the blow isn’t for him. It’s for— Griffith. 

A knife, that must’ve been hidden in his sleeve, Guts sees it slash into Griffith’s face, sees a flash of blood, sees both of them stagger from the force of it. 

Not red, Guts sees black in his fury, literally losing his vision from rage. 

Guts could have pulled out his sword, but the king doesn't even warrant such power, so a punch to the face sufficed. It’s more than enough though, he topples backwards, both hands clapping over the damage, teeth bloodied either by his dripping nose or his tongue which was caught between his teeth in the impact. It’s a miserable weak look, but his eyes are murderous, tight with anger, beaded like an animal’s. They all take a moment then for the events to register, settle, and once it does, they all move at once. The king, no fighter, charges towards the door instead of at Griffith, for the guards behind it. Simultaneously, Guts turns towards the window, jams the butt of his sword into it and shatters the glass. 

“You can’t run! I’ll have you killed! The both of you!” is what Guts thinks he hears, though the king is absolutely hysterical at this point, spluttering around his own blood and screaming with a thin voice. 

They’re on the second floor but it doesn’t matter at this point really, Guts and Griffith exchange a look and Guts understands— he grabs Griffith and takes on his oldest job, protecting his liege. So he jumps, manages to land in a bush, which he had meant to fall towards but really it was all luck in actually landing there.

Whether the king managed to actually find the guards or they heard the sounds from inside, there’s quickly screaming from above and shouts all around, he could practically hear the soldiers from all around running, concentrating towards the door to run after them. 

They need to get going, now, but first— 

He has to look at Griffith— at the wound, which seems too shallow to sever any of his facial muscles but definitely bad enough to scar, from his brow bone to his chin, jagged and wide. It’s still bleeding, plastered over his neck, down under his armor, dripping and dribbling down. Unconsciously, he clasps a hand over the wound, as if it would make it disappear, but all that does is make Griffith grit his teeth through a flinch. 

Bastard. Morherfucker. Guts is going back in there, gonna kill them all. Should carve him up just like Griffith was, no but worse, skin him alive, but he doesn’t think he can calm himself to the point of wielding his sword with precision. The moment he sees that cocksucker’s face he’s gonna slice him up into little pieces, alive or not. Fucking— 

He doesn’t realize Griffith’s hand is cupped over his own cheek until it squeezes, smushing up his face in a way that would make them laugh if things were any different. But why only one hand?

He was so caught up on the scarring on his face that he didn’t notice his other arm— he grabs it from where Griffith is hiding it behind his back and finds it bloody. 

“...If it wasn’t my hand, he would’ve cut my mouth. Better this than lose my tongue.”

It’s at the side of his wrist, not bleeding too much but...

“Are you.. okay...?” 

Griffith sighs, in a way very unlike him. It makes Guts feel outside of his body, like he’s dreaming. 

“This is the most I can move it.”

His fingers twitch at the second knuckle. That’s it. 

“...But… it’s gonna heal… right?”

Griffith swallows and nods. “Yeah... We don’t have time for this right now, though. Let’s get going.”

He feels cold, like his blood stopped circulating. It’s that thing your body does when it registers danger, shunting off the blood from your extremities, to save your suffocating brain. It’s a fear response, a last ditch effort to save yourself. Guts hasn’t ever experienced this though, not even when he really had come close to death. 

He wills his numb hand to remain, not letting him go just yet. “At least…. lemme wrap it up.”

“Just the wrist. Quickly.”

He does, or he tries, but his hand shakes. Wordlessly, he releases Griffith, turns around, and punches a tree, hard enough to scrape the skin clean off his knuckles, and then returns to the task, marginally more productive. It’s a shit job still, a strip of cloth torn off his sleeve wrapped and messily tied over the wound. The cloth is dark but he can see the blood seeping into it. And around too, bright and wet and slipping down in both directions, over his hand, his forearm. 

It’s the first time in his life that seeing blood has made him dizzy. 

Guts has seen injuries like this before, he knows where the vulnerable tendons are in the body and what happens when they’re cut. Hell, he’s a perfect example. 

But he’s no doctor— nothing’s for sure yet. Just wait, give it some time to heal, then surely— anyways, this is the work of that good for nothing king, it’s probably the first time he’s made someone bleed, this should be nothing. Griffith has faced literal monsters with only an unorthodox haircut to show for it. This is nothing. It has to be nothing. 

(But if it’s for real, then Griffith can’t hold a sword anymore…) (But, but he can just get a prosthetic one instead, it’s no big deal) (Either way, it’s fine.) (It’s fine.) 

Guts only manages one step east before Griffith clasps a hand on his wrist, his unscarred one, on Guts’ metallic one. “No. The first place they’ll check is our home base.”

“But.. don’t we have to warn the others??” 

“They’ll be safer if we don’t involve them.”

He frowns— that doesn’t sound right to him, it sounds like a hostage crisis waiting to happen… but Griffith is unwavering in his decision making, a confidence that must be justified. Guts will trust him on this. He feels too sick to object anyway. He feels directionless. He just wants Griffith to take him somewhere. 

Now they’re running, top speed hand in hand, still Griffith’s uninjured one in Guts’ metal one, his previous aversion disregarded. 

Griffith eventually stops running, shortstops— to catch his breath? So Guts halts as well, in front of Griffith’s crumpled figure. When he rises, his face is pale, his breath slow. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Guts bites the inside of his cheek. “...Already happened though, nothin’ we can do about it—“

“But it shouldn’t. Have happened.” So he’s self aware. 

“So… why did it?”

“...I don’t know.”

“But you do.” Griffith whips around to face him, anger so unrestrained that Guts very nearly flinches. He considers quelling it with a touch to the shoulder, but Griffith seems too hot to touch. 

“I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t— making any plans.” He really does look scary right now. The blood on his face doesn’t look like it’s his own. 

“Were you worried about Zodd and the other guy? ‘cause it’s fine now, now that I got—“

“No, I wasn’t worrying about anything. That’s the problem. I was.. complacent.”

Guts frowns to indicate his confusion. 

“I should’ve realized how compromising it was to return her looking like that. It’s an easy fix, just a change of clothes. This was avoidable. Any other time and I would have… acted differently. Correctly.”

Guts doesn’t know what to say. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s my fault.”

“No— no, you..” Fuck, this blindsighted him more than the injuries. “I’m here too, I also shoulda realized—“

“I don’t expect that from you, though. I always factor your behavior into my plans. The problem is that I had none.”

No, but.. it’s because.. of Guts, isn’t it. Guts and his— their, their honeymooning. The skeleton knight’s words ring in his head with a disgusting clarity, the last of the air in his little bubble seeping out. 

That they have to choose, that only one goal can be pursued. Is Griffith remembering that too?? Guts wants to ask but, what if he isn’t, and then Guts bring the thought to him himself? Or if he already is, and Guts’ acknowledgement of it brings him to a decision. And, and it that decision is… 

When Guts looks at him though, there’s nothing he can read. It’s an alarming emptiness, like Griffith just woke from a dream. 

Which one? 

Guts wants to take the blame, say that it’s his fault but…

...He doesn’t want Griffith to blame him. 

There’s only one thing he can do though, and that’s,

“Y’know, it makes sense now. That talk about killing her.” Griffith doesn’t respond as he expects, so he continues. “We woulda been blameless if she died last night. They were right about the future.”

And then he risks it, just a little. “What if all that other stuff is true too?”

“No. Being right about one thing means nothing.” he finally answers with a voice coarse and low. 

“Yeah, yeah it doesn’t… but… maybe he can help us?”

Again, Guts is surprised that he’s the one making plans here, that he’s the first one to think of this. It’s a foreign responsibility, a hat too large to stay on his head, but he’ll tug and pull it down for now, he has to keep it on, keep it together. 

Griffith nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Between the two from yesterday… he seems to be the one on our side.”

He’s speaking more like normal but his face is foreign, somewhat halting, like he can’t decide what face to wear. That shouldn’t be a conscious effort though, not in front of Guts. 

Though he may just be projecting this— Griffith’s face has become rather. warped. Hair cropped on one side, face disfigured on the other, and not even a functional hand to properly cover it up. 

Our side, yes. “He called you king. So he’s gotta know something, like, what you gotta do so that’ll happen.”

Griffith raises a hand to hold Guts’, but lowers it when they both notice the stiffness in his fingers. They had immediately adjusted to this, but it looks like habits wield them stronger than awareness. Silently, he moves to Guts’ other side, grabs his hand. The physical contact is so consoling that he forgets to grieve over what led up to it. 

“I fuckin’ hate that place, but let’s go back to where we last saw him. Sounds like our best bet.”

What’s happened, happened, and now Guts can only fix it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recreating griffith’s injuries is hard LOL there’s no natural way to get injuries like you’ll get from torture. and i’m not done yet :03
> 
> not sure yet, but i’m thinking maybeee 2 chapters left? we’ll see! thanks sooo much for reading up to here, i hope y’all can stick to the end with me <3!


	5. Chapter 5

There’s something maddening about repetition. The memories are so alike they overlap, so perfectly it’s seamless, only branching off into different futures and— it’s surreal, it’s like a dream, a test, asking Guts to pick a path. None of them lead anywhere good… he doesn’t want to be here. Had they not repeated this, only come this way once, then maybe… 

This is unlike Guts, this sense of regret, loss. He stands by his actions, he doesn’t waste time with unproductive wishes but, but, Griffith, and his  _ face _ …

Regret doesn’t cover it. It’s guilt, thick and wet in his lungs, dampening his every breath and sinking his body low and lower. On every exhale it leaks out of him, scented with blood, blood he wishes was his own. It’s not something Griffith should scent, lest it infect him too. But muffling his already smothered breaths leaves him wary and weak and already, he staggers, nearly too fatigued to continue. 

It’s ridiculous— he wasn’t even scathed, he has no reason to react like this. But Griffith’s incapacitated hand, torn and limp, has a hold on him, tight and unyielding. Of course he can’t breathe, how could be, with that grip around his throat, leaving a red handprint in its wake. There’s no responsibility though, no guilt to wash clean, it’s not a stain of blood but the imprint of his hand, a bruise in Guts’ skin which can’t be wiped away, the bleeding internal. 

Guts conjures something lighthearted but it doesn’t make its way through his throat, past that watchful grip. There are no comforts for him to give. 

There’s no more anticipation, suspense. Zodd could emerge from the ground like a fucking hedgehog and slice Guts’ head off and he wouldn’t even react. He’s sluggish, anxious, uncomfortable. He wants to go back to the camp. He wants to ask Casca for advice. Will he never… see her again? 

“Do you think I’m ugly now?” Griffith asks after what might have been the tenth time Guts glanced at him in the last five minutes. But who’s keeping count. 

“No.” he answers immediately, and he means it. Between the two of them, it’s not Griffith who’s become ugly. 

His right hand throbs with pain, which doesn’t diminish when he tries to physically shake it off. It’s the first sense of feeling he’s had there since it was cut away. There were no phantom pains, not until now, but it’s probably because he didn’t dwell on his loss— since it wasn't even a loss, more of an exchange, but not equal— he gained something much more valuable, he would say. 

Then… sympathy pains? For Griffith? He clenches his fist, thinks it and it happens, and yet it feels incomplete, the ghost of his limb rigid. Fucking annoying. What isn’t tangible shouldn’t have the right to touch others. 

And what hasn’t happened shouldn’t have the right to touch time. 

Griffith’s hand brushes against Guts’ artificial one, and while he couldn’t feel it he still flinches. 

“You know...we match now. Do you think it’s karma?”

“No.” Again, immediate. He considers it for a moment longer. “You don’t deserve this. I’m sorry.”

“It’ll be fine. You’re my sword.” Griffith seems strangely… content with this, reassured. Confident. 

...And he should be. A solution exists, and the two of them are capable. Why isn’t Guts confident then? 

He swallows, feels some of that discomfort pass. “....Yeah. You’ll… be king, you won’t need to fight anyway.” He takes hold of that useless hand which actually isn’t useless at all— all it must do is point, after all. That’s right. This is fine. 

They’ll get Zodd’s help, like he said. They’ll figure out whatever they gotta do to make Griffith king. They’ll go back to the Band of Hawk, rally the troops, and take over the place, even if it’s gotta be a coup. Or maybe it’ll be peaceful, maybe Griffith can reconnect with Charlotte, that bridge isn’t completely burned, not yet… Whatever, it’s possible, so it’ll happen. Griffith’s incapacitated hand  _ can _ be compared to Guts’, in that it doesn’t hold him back. Nor the wound on his face, like Guts’ blinded eye. They are, oddly, parallel. It makes Guts feel closer to him. 

The apprehension remains, like half healed cuts at his feet tracking blood with every step, but at least he manages to breathe easier. 

It’s not long before they spot a figure from afar, simultaneously, both snapping to action, swords drawn and bodies stanced to fight. It lacks the grandeur of the other times, like splitting open the sky or earth, but Guts is nonetheless cautious— but it’s. 

Casca. 

The moment they join eyes, he can tell she’s distraught— it’s like when they found Charlotte here, in these fucking cursed woods where history repeats itself over and over again. But it’s completely different— 

There’s no relief at the sight of them, no half smile, no teary eyes, even, just this— confusion, and moreso,  _ anger _ . 

Guts openly gapes in shock, she’s the last person he’d expect to see— 

“What have you done..?”

Neither of them answer, Guts still surprised, and Griffith surely as well. There’s an odd sense of... fear in touching her, a growing sense of dread as she shakily approaches. He finds himself taking a step back, and catches himself from retreating further. 

She’s covered in blood, her armor and her clothes and her face— blood and dirt, mixed together so thoroughly it’s like mud, stark against her paled skin. It makes his own face pale and he finally notices the cloth wrapped around her waist, dampened at her side with what he could only assume is….

“You’re hurt...”

“Me? Everyone else is  _ dead _ .” 

Her voice, weak and raspy, soaks into the surrounding trees, shrivels them up so that they all hunch forward, looming in like the earth is swallowing them. He dares to look at one of them and sees a face in the wood, haggard and pained. He quickly looks and moves away, closer towards her. “....What?”

He turns to Griffith with the expectation of a horrified face mirroring his, but rather, he’s stiff, tight lipped. Continues to watch Casca with that surprised face, like she shouldn’t be here, like she shouldn’t be… alive…

No. “What happened..?”

“They were looking for you two… said… you tried to kill the royal family?”

It’s enough, he understands. They all died in his stead. 

His knees feel weak and he allows them to release, to plunge to the ground where Casca quickly joins him, her own legs probably made feeble from the journey. All of them? Just like that? No goodbyes, no final stand, no battle wrought glory? Instead, exterminated like pests, away from recording eyes, made as if they never existed. 

Guts has seen them die before. Has prepared for it, accepted it, quietly mourned and coped with it. But this was facilitated with the knowledge that it had  _ meaning _ . That it was willing, and with good purpose. Unlike the death of a mercenary, which is to just extinguish a candle, the death of a full fledged soldier fans flames, sparks that army to avenge that death and then some. But who can Guts afflict that vengeance on, when it was his fault to begin with?

His own death sounds fair, but it would further render those deaths pointless, would bury them deep without a tombstone to mark the world with their existence. There is… no repentance, besides to slaughter the royal family, make them into a scapegoat for his own mistakes and cut off their ugly heads, use their blood to pave a path from here to the throne, all for Griffith. The self awareness that it’s an act of escapism doesn’t hinder its effectiveness. Already, his new source of rage has him back to his feet, looking down at Casca. 

And looking at her now, weak and wounded, he feels like it’s the first time he’s really seen her. She’s as strong and disciplined as she looks but she’s alone, with only a battle-worn sword to prop herself up on. Kick it out from under her and she’ll topple over. 

The anger and distrust he’d felt from before stings, not healed but easily forgotten, a new source of pain to seize his attention. She’s like this because they abandoned her. 

“I don’t understand… Griffith.. you planned for this?”

“No.” He’s not looking at her, looks at neither of them, instead downwards, expression hidden. The shadow his uneven bangs cast upon his face is jagged, and for a moment Guts thinks he’s been cut again. 

She looks at Griffith, maimed and ashamed, with his lowered head and dangling arm, then at Guts, who looks the same as he did since they last met. “You're…. doing this for Griffith, right?” The message is clear. Those wounds should be Guts’. 

“I messed up.” he confesses, though admitting it brings no relief. “But—we have a plan. It’s gonna be.. okay…” It sounds like a lie to his own ears, because how can anything be fine right now. Everyone he knows is either hurt or dead, because of him. But what else can he do or say? 

He can’t tell if the judgement in her eyes is a projection of his own or not. “This isn’t.. what you guys promised. I don’t understand. Why did you—“

“Like Guts said, this isn’t the end. Just rest for now.”

“Griffith.” she wheezes, sounding tenfold pained. “They’re all dead. Gone. Tell me.. it was for a reason. Please— I want to help. Let me help you guys. Just tell me what’s going on.”

Griffith still doesn’t look at her. “It was. I’ll show you. For now, sleep.” 

Whether she’s obeying him or her body reached its limit, her eyes close now, panicked breath sinking along with her consciousness into slumber. Even in rest her brow is furrowed, body tight. The sight of her gives Guts the chills, like a bucket of cold water dumped over his face in the middle of the night. Like being woken up from a dream. 

He barely thought of them, of how this would affect them. He took Griffith’s word without a second thought. The only friends he’s ever made lie dead, practically from his own blade, the slash he made towards the skeleton instead slashing Charlotte, instead slashing the band of the hawk, instead slashing… Griffith. All of this because of his own weakness, his meddling. Were he not there to begin with, Griffith wouldn’t have made any mistakes, wouldn’t have slipped into this nearly unsalvageable situation. Guts wasn’t needed in the first place— Griffith was safe from Zodd, didn’t need protection that night, didn’t need— distraction. 

But the worst thing about all of this… is that Guts doesn’t regret it. He regrets how useless he is, how weak and unthoughtful and impulsive— but not for being by Griffith’s side. If not there, where else could he be? 

He gazes at her troubled face, and almost wishes it's enough to incapacitate him, make him stop all this unintentional destruction, but it’s, simply, not enough. More than regret, than pity, than guilt (all of which he feels strongly), when he looks at her, his dominating thought is whether or not she can be of help to them. The need to repent to Griffith far overpowers the obligation to all others. They’ll all be related, all paths will meet at this road anyway. Guts is only taking the most direct route. 

The tense air remains even as she’s unconscious— it’s heavy, but Guts wills himself to move, to unwrap the crusty bandages from around Casca’s side. It reveals a concerningly deep wound, still bleeding, and so he hastily rips off his sleeve to serve as a replacement. When he looks back up at Griffith, he finds the other’s eyes on the serrated seam, on his bare forearm. 

And then he remembers the skeleton’s words. A prophecy of death, for them all— madness, that was the word used. 

He can’t help himself from speaking. “If everything they said is right—“

“It’s not.” Griffith is quick, dismissive but when Guts looks at him, he’s hit with a frenzied stare, so severe he very nearly drops it. But— 

“I said  _ if _ !” He almost shouts it, and needs to take a moment to clear his throat and lower his voice. “Just. If you really do have to choose or whatever. What would you—“

“I’m not everything to you, so you can’t ask that of me.” 

Guts can only gape in shocked response. Those are his  _ own _ words. That’s the very threat that had him sacrifice his own flesh to prevent. 

“How can you believe that?” He jerks his mechanical hand up in display, nearly tears it off to make a point. 

“Yeah? Then would you kill Casca if I asked?”

Right after his, of course, shock, he realizes that he actually knows nothing of what Griffith thinks. That, more than what’s currently being said, scares Guts. He can’t even recall what his previous confidence  _ felt _ like, and certainly not its source. 

“Why would you even propose that?”

“What if she’s the last thing stopping us from being happy? What if it were here or us? You wouldn’t kill her?”

It’s almost— almost as if Griffith  _ wanted _ the Bank of the Hawk decimated. Which is impossible, which Guts could never truly come to believe— but it’s like it. 

“But it’s not— what are you getting at?”

Through his own unease he realizes that Griffith is pretty disturbed himself— his shoulders are narrow and shaking, eyes unrelenting in their intensity, exactly the same look as when he gouged Guts’ eye out. Guts’ innate self preservation senses the danger, shunts blood from his limbs to protect his body, a useless shock reaction. He’s dizzy, off balance, scared. 

“If you hadn’t cut Charlotte then maybe— maybe things would be different.”

Yeah. At this moment, Guts genuinely believes Griffith can actually read his mind, that or this is some living nightmare. It’s too uncanny. 

“I’m— sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

Griffith throws his hands up, suddenly looking more tired than Guts’ ever seen. “It would be different if you had! It would have been okay. If you had.”

“...What?”

“It would have made us even. It would have made you as cruel as me. I wouldn't have held it against you. 

He could almost laugh, at how unfunny it is. Griffith and him, they’re not good people. Though Guts never subscribed to the ideal of grandeur, to the idea of a paradise— he’s worse than Griffith, probably. Between the two of them, Guts’ is the cruel one. Selfish, greedy, self absorbed, desperate for Griffith’s… everything. Does he even want to fix things, or does he just want Griffith’s forgiveness? Griffith’s dream is his happiness, and so even if Guts has no investment in some glorious kingdom, he should want it. But no, it’s not quite the mark, in all honesty, despite his every better sense… Guts doesn’t care if Griffith is miserable… if they’re still together. If he’s still valued. His dream is one that only helps himself… which may not coincide with helping Griffith. Between the lives of all his friends and being the  _ one _ , he chooses… the more selfish one. 

“ _ A dream... It's something you do for yourself, not for others.” _

The only thing that stops him from complete self loathing is the knowledge that this is what Griffith looks for in an equal.

“But you wouldn’t do something like that, would you.” Griffith smiles then, something small and mean. “Well. I would.”

Guts’ empty eye twitches. “You… did, already.” But only to, only for Guts, which is what gave it such gravity, a weight that would make anyone sink to the ground. 

“No, I could have done more.. I still can. I could take Casca and—“

“No!” Guts takes a defensive step in front of her, hiding her from his view. He doesn’t want to hear the end of the sentence, which would solidify a thought he refuses to have. He knows Griffith, knows how much he values the other soldiers— he wouldn’t really hurt Casca. That’s impossible from him. 

Griffith stares at him, at the two of them, and his eyes seem to turn dark, rejecting the sunlight from above. “Why? Why not me? Because I’m a man? Because I've already been spoiled? Because I’m cruel?”

“What, no— I don’t like her like that, I like you, I lov—“

“But not enough.”

He glances at Casca’s still body, and considers it. Genuinely considers it. 

It’s very possible that the knowledge that he’s indirectly killed everyone else close to him that’s desensitized him, at least at the moment. It could be the threat of Griffith releasing him that drives him to such measures. Nevertheless, the thought comes to him. 

Guts doesn’t even care about what happened to the Band of the Hawk. He does, in that he loves them all, mourns their death, bears that responsibility and guilt. But he will go on, for Griffith’s sake, for what they were all working towards. The fact that it was kept secret hardly even upsets him— he understands it was for his own protection, denies the thought that Griffith could have foreseen it. As long as he can stay where he is. As long as Griffith allows him here, he’ll take those deaths. After all, it’s not a hateful thing, not when Griffith is the same way. 

He loves Casca. She’s the kindest person he’s ever met, supporting and helping him in her reluctant but genuine ways. Things would be different if he fell for her. He wouldn’t be placed somewhere where he could hurt so many, wouldn’t be asked to. 

_ ‘To simply exist.. just because one's been born is the sort of notion that I hate.. I can't stand it.’ _

But loving her would make him a common man, unworthy of Griffith’s eyes, much less his hand. He’d have no ambitions, no needs, no value. Not living, he’d just be existing, quiet and careful. 

Could he.. trample on others? The right to do so is only reserved for one superior, at a height where others are actually beneath him. Casca isn’t beneath him, though. 

The deliberation must have taken too long, or Griffith’s finished with Guts’ follies, or maybe fate really is inevitable. Whatever the cause, Griffith calmly opens his functional hand and fixes Guts a steadier gaze. 

“Give it to me.” 

And Guts just—  _ knows _ . The behelit. 

“Wh— why? But you said—“

“Now, Guts!” His voice is sharp, angry, demanding. It makes Guts shudder and clutch at his chest. He feels the need to comply, and very nearly rips the behelit off his neck. But— 

Griffith has made his choice. Between his own kingdom and Guts, this is what he chooses. It should be obvious, shouldn't have warranted consideration in the first place, and still the sight makes Guts mad, not in the breed of anger, but hysteria. 

As time passes, that which feels bad comes to be normal. Only in its absence can you feel good. but it’s the same with what feels good— that too will be taken for granted, become what is expected. What entitlement, to feel bad when it’s taken away, when it wasn’t even yours. 

He’s grown content, happy, and forgotten that such a thing must be earned, taken. Such a thing won’t be dropped at his feet, no, not to one like him, cursed from birth. Whatever he wants has to be fought for, wrought with desperate curled hands. 

He won’t cup his hands and wish for rain— if he’s thirsty, he’ll plunge his face straight into the river, if he drowns, so be it. And if there’s no water then fine, he’ll drink blood, cut open the belly of his own horse if he must. 

The behelit smolders against his skin, tucked under his shirt and flush against his heart, right where it belongs. It’s already become apart of him, fused into his skin, now a protruding organ. 

To part with it is to part with Griffith. “I won’t hand it over.”

His eyebrows arch high in shocked anger, and he pulls out his sword with his left hand. “Don’t make me cut it off you.”

“You’ll have to.” He responds, unsheathing his own sword, whatever nervousness steadied by his determination. 

_ ‘He would never hesitate to fight for his dream, even against me. For me, a true friend is one who stands equal on those terms.’ _

Griffith puts on his helmet, worn only in serious battle. Beneath it, his wounds are hidden, and it’s like— Guts’ sin is erased, at least one of them. But if Guts indeed rises to his level, nothing he’s done would qualify as sins. 

Neither of them move. Again, this is repetition of what’s happened before, the same scene, stance, sense. A test, a gesture— but Guts won’t allow it to be an exact replay. This will be a new branch, a  _ change _ . 

Griffith charges first, swings his blade in a direct and rushed path, which Guts easily meets with his own sword, and within that same averting swing he uses sheer force to push Griffith’s sword up and away. But to deflect isn’t enough, this time he won’t cower, he’ll strike— 

So he intentionally swings towards Griffith’s good eye, avoiding his blind spot out of courtesy, the same strike Griffith has made but with more power. And yet he doesn’t parry as Guts had. 

Instead, he seems to freeze, looking at Guts’ eyes rather than his sword, and doesn’t see, doesn’t stop it from slipping past the opening in his helmet. 

It happened quickly, but Guts felt every part of it clearly. The blade sunk in  _ so _ easily, through the soft flesh of his cheeks, his tongue, and only met resistance where his mouth narrowed. It gets caught between his teeth but Guts could probably split through his entire head if he tried, if he dug, but he doesn’t, he wouldn’t ( _ he wouldn’t _ ) (HE DIDN’T MEAN TO)—

Both his hands release the blade once the damage registers, and it remains stuck in Griffith’s helmet, in Griffith—!!

A small sound, it isn’t a voice but a gurgle, then a spout of blood to back it up, spaying through the opening in his mask. And slipping beneath it, his neck painted red from a steady stream, and then there’s voice— a cry, shocked and pained. 

Guts doesn’t think, doesn’t feel as he raises a hand to help, shaking and limp. 

But Griffith jerks away, stumbles backward, shakily pulls the blade from his skin himself, doesn’t release it, not even to cover the wound. He says something but— it’s indecipherable, sounds instead of words. And then he points the blade at Guts. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> berserk updated recently so i thought i would too LOL i’m sorryyy but y’all know, school n stuff. honestly i’m just putting off writing the final chapter(s?) bc i don’t think i can do them justice ;; but i’ll persevere! next chapter’s griffith’s pov and it SHOULD be out soon.. ish. if ur reading this, thank youuu for sticking by, it rly motivates me to keep going
> 
> this is all extrapolated from what miura has said in an interview— that guts wouldn’t be able to keep hating griffith sm if everyone was killed off. he had to give guts a love interest and torture her (ugh) to give us the guts we know in canon. sooo i hope no one thinks this is ooc— like id said, guts is not a good person. casca was shown to be guts’ driving force into being good, dont forget the guts we saw in the beginning of the story! poor guy is SO impressionable... lol


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